


Guardian

by Felrott



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Gore, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Cages, M/M, Masochism, Needles, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29843508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felrott/pseuds/Felrott
Summary: 'The debaucheries I have witnessed...'Draven takes care of Renathal after Denathrius is done with him for the day.
Relationships: Denathrius/Renathal (Warcraft), Draven/Renathal (Warcraft)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I run Nathria I risk the /gkick bc I'm too thirsty over Draven... No regrets...
> 
> MMkay heads up for uh, fic is basically just aftermath of Denathrius and Renathals rapidly spiralling shitty relationship ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> ALSO I cba editign this anymore than it absolutely needs, zero beta reading, pls just take it so I can move on to the next random WIP in my list
> 
> TW: needles, it's all needles but not the injecting kind? Like fucked up pins. Possibly reads as dubcon, except it's not it's just.. unhealthy and Draven is like '???'
> 
> For the fuckers scrolling that CBT tag who don't give a fuck about fandom: a) Den and Ren are like vampires and Draven is a fuck huge gargoyle bat thing, yw and b) godspeed

The tingle of unease crawls up Draven’s back whenever he’s near Castle Nathria, an itch he can’t shake, of his Master watching his every move, waiting to deride or punish for the slightest misstep. There’s no escaping Denathrius, not in Revendreth, where his touch lingers in the very fibre of their world, and where loyal eyes watch and wait, hoping for anything they can offer for a shred of their Master’s attention. Draven has never truly understood the shifting Venthyr hierarchy, but he doesn’t need to understand it, to see how many are trampled underfoot in the slow race to the top.

Or, as near to the top as they dare to climb; Denathrius’ attention is a curse hidden under honeyed words and subtle smiles, a dangerous trap that so few seem to see until they’re caught in it, and even then they might not realise their mistake, not until they’re abandoned and burning in the wastelands. 

None know the curse of his love more than Prince Renathal, his first and most cherished creation, who bears the scars of his master’s love like fine jewellery on his skin. He wears his bruises with pride, scatters of dark marks that prove his loyalty and devotion, and truly there are none so loyal in all of the Shadowlands.

If Denathrius should ever cast him out, he has the furthest to fall, and Draven’s not sure he’ll be able to catch him in time.

But those are thoughts for another day, and for now at least, Denathrius seems pleased enough with his creation, or at least not bored enough to cast him out yet. As much as Draven loathes Castle Nathria, loathes skulking around in the hidden corridors, waiting for his master’s beck and call, at least if he’s here, his Prince doesn’t have to suffer their master’s  _ love _ alone, even if Draven is only called upon to guard the door and pick up the pieces, at least… at least there are still pieces to pick up.

But those pieces seem to get smaller and smaller as the eons go on, and Draven’s hands were not made to fix broken things.

The swirl of dark thoughts don’t show on Draven’s face. He’s made of stone, strong and unbreakable, and if he can control his features when he has to watch Renathal scream and beg, he can control them when a train of thought slips away from him. His posture is perfect, head back and shoulders broad, wings spread just wide enough to cover the door. He knows he’s not guarding his master and Prince from anyone’s wandering eyes, not when Denathrius is always so keen to show his Prince off at parties or depraved gatherings. 

There’s a manipulation here, he can tell by the cruel looks Denathrius casts his way occasionally, like he’s checking that Draven is watching before he drags more desperate noises from Renathal, but Draven refuses to rise to them. Years of watching his Prince ‘serve’ the Master have done nothing to make it any easier; not even when Renathal was cherished and adored, lovingly humbled before Denathrius’ court, but it’s helped Draven grow numb enough to withstand it. 

Numb enough to not move when Renathal finally stops screaming. Numb enough that he doesn’t intervene when Denathrius keeps toying with his broken body. Numb enough that Draven can stand and watch when Denathrius takes him, today with a brutal instrument rather than himself, to break Renathal inside as well as out, while he does nothing but beg and gasp and twitch limply in the Master’s deadly grip.

Draven knows Denathrius likes to watch his subjects squirm, and none more so than his finest creation, but this… this achieves nothing. There’s no humility to be found lying broken and twitching at Denathrius’ feet, out of his mind with pain and lust. And no matter how broken he is, he will be there again when the Master calls, whether he has to walk or crawl or be carried in by Draven himself, Renathal will be there. And so will Draven.

He’s finally freed of his careful facade with a tut and a click from Denathrius’ fingers. Draven tries not to look at the blood coating them, tries to ignore how Denathrius licks his claws clean as he finally steps away from the twitching body at his feet. He doesn’t even need to say anything, just gestures airily to the prince and drops into a plush chair to watch Draven pick up his broken toy.

Cold eyes watch Draven as he approaches his prince. Nowhere in Revendreth is safe from the master’s eyes, but the sensation of having them on you is unsettling, like he can see into Draven’s every thought, waiting to pull the sin from him if he shows even the barest hint of it. Or deciding if he deserve to pay penance regardless.

Draven lets his wings spread a little as he stoops to pick Renathal up, a futile effort to preserve his modesty, but it’s all he can do. Renathal was brought to the room naked, likely paraded through the castle like a prized pet, and there’s nothing Draven can offer him except to take him to safety as quickly as possible.

It will be a struggle, he realises, as he sees the damage up close; Renathal is delirious with the pain and bliss he seems to experience under his Sire’s hand, but Draven doesn’t understand how or why, not when his body looks like he was chewed and spat out by some great beast.

He’s fought on countless worlds, battled unending armies, and seen the horrors of warfare with his own eyes, caused it with his own hands, but it so often pales in comparison to what Renathal so willingly endures for his master.

His prince is a mess; wounds carved so deeply into his flesh that Draven can see the chipped bone underneath, but Denathrius was careful when he bled him, not wanting to cover the rest of his work with the smears of blood that pool on the floor and against the wall. The needles that slip through Renathal’s skin were only pushed deeper by the way Renathal writhed against the wall he was chained to, and Draven struggles to pick him up in a way that doesn’t push them deeper still, or risk breaking any off inside his body.

He tucks him against his chest as best he can, and tries to ignore the sticky sensation that seeps into his palm where he cups his ass. Denathrius rarely fucks Renathal himself these days, just violates him with crueler and crueler ‘toys’, testing his limits and devotion. Draven doesn’t need to look to know his cock and balls are as much a mess as the rest of him, if not worse for the tight cage he’s been suffering for possibly millennia by this point. He can feel the cold steel pressed hard against his stomach where he holds him, feels Renathal’s breath hitch and shudder as he presses and tries to rut against him, until Draven holds him still.

It’s sickening, but it’s more sickening that Draven is used to this sight, and that Renathal is still moaning and twitching his hips weakly, mouth still begging for more, for anything his Sire will give him. Draven has watched them for eons, watched how Denathrius had grown from doting and caring, to almost bored with him, and Renathal can’t seem to see it, can’t seem to see the darkness that lurks under his Sire’s cruel smirk and hard eyes.

When he touches him, Renathal shudders and cries out and still arches into his touch, no matter how fresh blood seeps from his wounds. Denathrius trained him so well, made him so perfect for himself, that it makes Draven angry— how could he create and ruin something so  _ perfectly _ , only to grow bored of it? Draven has seen how Denathrius treats the servants, tries not to think how many of his fellow stoneborn have been lost to the Master’s fits of rage or boredom.

Rarely, Denthrius would take an interest in a particularly stubborn or ‘evil’ soul, and Draven would be forced to bear witness to its humbling. He’s almost thankful, that with the growing drought, there have been less and less souls for Denathrius to… redeem. Perhaps though, that’s why Renathal now bears the burden of taking their master’s indulgences.

"Sss…rr…" Renathal slurs a noise against Draven’s chest, and Draven brings up his other hand to cup the back of his head, possibly the only place Denathrius hasn’t thought to hurt yet. He struggles not to bury his hand in his hair, to try and soothe his noises as soon as he can, but Denathrius is still watching, and Draven can’t risk him thinking there’s anything more between them than what he allows.

The dredgers, at least, don’t need telling what to do. They arrive with mops and dented buckets as soon as Renathal is in Draven’s arms, most of them barely offering them even a glance. Their noise though is enough to have Renathal stirring, and he tries to pull back to look with a hiss of pain, until Draven tugs him back into his chest to hide.

It’s a short walk to a balcony, but it still takes too long when Denathrius is watching his back. He pauses, just a fraction, in case his master has something to ask of him, or a time he wants his toy delivered back into his cruel hands, but for once he’s silent. Draven’s careful not to show his relief before he jumps as carefully as he can, and glides down to down to Darkwall Tower, where Denathrius keeps Renathal overlooked and within easy reach. 

The dredger at the door grimaces as they approach, but doesn’t say anything for once, just opens the door and waves them in. The noise of it slamming shut behind them makes Renathal stir once more, but now, away from Denathrius’ eyes, Draven is free to pet his prince’s hair and hurry towards getting him fixed.

It’s a long walk to the guest room Draven favours for this task; not Renathal’s grand bedroom, where a mirror overlooks his bed, a direct gateway to Denathrius’ own chambers. Instead, Draven takes him to the furthest bedroom from it, up winding staircases until he’s in a tall tower, away from the noise of the main halls and rooms, where Renathal’s household keep things moving.

None of the servants he passes comment, but all watch, even as Draven tries to offer Renathal a shield with his wings.

The room is simple by Revendreth standards, with a large canopy bed and heavy throws and blankets. The walls are empty, where there used to be paintings of nobles and scenery, but Renathal took them down when Draven expressed a disinterest in them.

This was, after all, supposed to be his room, at least when he was around.

‘ _ I insist you take it, you spend rather a lot more time here of late, and even if you don’t appreciate the rest, it’s always good to have space to oneself.’ _ Renathal had told him so many eons ago. Slowly the room had changed, when Renathal would learn more and more little nuances of Draven’s tastes. The paintings had gone, the bulk of the furniture, until it was a modest room with a large bed and a single chest of drawers, where he might keep things he collected. These days, it mostly housed bandages and ointments and surplus bottles of anima that Draven secretly stole away from better hunts.

There was even a balcony, behind the heavy velvet curtains, that Draven refused to use; it wouldn’t do either of them any good if he were seen to come and go so easily, and though Denathrius must surely know of what happens after he was finished with Renathal, it was never good to flaunt it.

There were a million worlds and realities Denathrius could send Draven to attack, for countless years, and whereas once Draven would have gone without hesitation, now… he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk coming back to Renathal broken beyond repair.

Renathal moans when Draven tries to set him down, and it takes some finessing to lay him as gently as he can without jarring his shoulders or making his injuries worse. He lays him on his back, and carefully pulls his arms down to rest at his sides— while the cuts that frame his spine are deep, they can’t worsen, unlike the cruel things buried deep in his chest and stomach. And thighs and arms and…

Draven leaves Renathal’s side just a moment to drag a stool over, a plush thing that’s comfortable, and sturdy enough for his weight. It appeared one day, to replace the armchair Draven had confessed was uncomfortable for his wings and tail, and Renathal hadn’t even mentioned it, but his eyes had lit up when Draven used it for the first time.

As he settles his weight, and finally tries to relax the tense hold of his wings, Renathal’s eyes flicker open a fraction, and the hazy light of them is almost bright in the darkness of the room. His lips move, and his throat bobs but no words come, and Draven’s hand is on his forehead before he can think about it, brushing the stringy mess from his face and petting him to lay back into the pillows. 

“Try to rest, my prince.” Draven rumbles, knowing full well that he won’t. Renathal will watch his every movement until he can no longer keep his eyes open.

There’s so much to fix, but Renathal is well-made and sturdy, so Draven can simply start at the top and take his time.

Though Renathal’s hair is matted with sweat and blood, and his lips swollen and bloody from bite, his face was at least left free from Denathrius’ touch. His neck is bruised, but that’s not uncommon these days, and Draven tries to ignore how similar in size the marks around his neck are to Draven’s own hands.

In the end, he starts by easing the first needle from Renathal’s bicep; it’s beautiful and cruel, long and thin with a jewelled red bead at the head, that matches the colour of Renathal’s blood perfectly. The bead is just enough for Draven to grip today, but he’s done this before when it was just shards of glass, wire or splinters, and he knows there’s a tool in the drawers behind him if he needs them.

Except, it doesn’t ease out as easily as he had hoped; it pulls deeply at the flesh it’s buried in, refusing to slip free, and Renathal whines feebly when Draven tries to stretch the skin tight with one hand and pull with the other.

In the end, he has to hold Renathal down, and rip it free despite his noises, and then to his horror he understands. Barbs, tiny and plentiful decorate the tip and half the length, beaded with blood and gore. The wound it leaves is a mess, a ravaged hole in Renathal’s skin that will take so much longer to heal than the simple cuts on his back, and with a lurch in his stomach, Draven realises that Denathrius planned it this way. That Renathal’s torture was simply passed to his hands instead.

Draven’s hands shake as he drops it to the floor next to him. He looks over Renathal, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. There are many, so,  _ so _ many of them decorating his body, glinting in the dim light like Renathal is draped in jewels. Some are buried deep, other simply slip through his skin to the other side, like abhorrent piercings. Small and long, some thicker and thinner, it will take Draven hours to pull them free, and he’ll ruin Renathal in the process.

“My prince…” His voice lacks its usual strength.

Renathal only offers a sort of half smile in reply.

Draven takes it, and gets to work.

The first few come out with effort, not made easier by Renathal’s uncontrolled writhing. Draven has to keep him pinned with one huge hand while the other rips the damned things free, but soon enough he develops a rhythm. He finds they come cleaner if he pushes and drags them out with a subtle twist, and the steady clinking of them falling by his feet grows steadier and constant. The ones pushed through the skin are easier, and it’s just a case of pushing them further, and breaking the barbed half off and slipping them free.

He’s just done so to one nipple, and is working on the other when Renathal’s choked little noise of pain takes on a different edge. A breathy sort of gasp when Draven pushes the needle in fully, a twitch of his hips that’s so different to how he tries to pull away from the pain. Draven doesn’t need to look to know that he’s hard, or at least trying to be in the gaudy cock cage Denathrius locked him in so long ago.

He knows he shouldn’t look, that the sight will just anger and sadden him, but Draven is weak, and he glances anyway, and the hatred builds in the back of his chest. Even Renathal’s most sensitive place wasn’t spared Denathrius’ brutality, and the jewels of the needle heads glint from between the delicate bars of the cage that keeps him ‘in his place’.

Renathal hasn’t come in eons. Draven was there when the cage was put on, and he remembers all too well how Renathal writhed and begged afterwards, much to Denathrius’ amusement. It made him  _ almost _ compliant, willing for any touch Denathrius might give him; he’d already danced the fine like of pleasure and pain, but ever since pleasure was denied to him, he’d slipped into the other side, and sunk deeper and deeper, and wanted more and more pain that Denathrius was only too willing to give.

And now, it’s no different whether it’s Draven causing the pain or his master. Renathal sobs as Draven snaps the needle in his nipple and slips the other half out, and Draven watches him bite his bloody lip and moan as his cock hardens and pushes against the bars. It must hurt so much more when he’s hard, when the needles seem to move and catch in places that have Renathal’s thighs trembling and his feet kicking weakly at the throws.

Draven tries to ignore it as he keeps going, keeps tugging and snapping and slipping the awful needles from his body, even while Renathal shivers under his touch and pushes into his hands. When he finally reaches his legs, he has to ignore the smell of his arousal, the heady scent that goes straight to Draven’s gut. It’s not his place; Renathal isn’t his to take.

He cleans out his thighs, pulls the handful of them from the bottom of his feet, and then comes back to his cock, where it waits and strains for him.

He glances up to Renathal’s face, but he’s lost to the pain-pleasure of it all, his eyes hazy and mouth slack, panting and on the cusp of…  _ something _ . Draven could break the little lock on his cage so easily, could take him in hand or mouth in an instant and give him the pleasure he so truly deserves, but he knows there would be no coming back from that, and that he’d never survive Denathrius’ wrath for touching his favoured toy.

Instead he pets Renathal’s thigh, and cups his cock gently in his huge palm. Sometimes, Draven wonders why Denathrius made Renathal so small down here, but its not his place to question their master’s taste.

He tries to be quick, to pull the needles out with minimal fuss, but just touching them has Renathal whimpering and trying to buck into his touch, and Draven has to be careful or he’ll push them deeper… except… 

He looks closer, judges the angle and length of them. It will be easier to push them in, pierce through to the other side and break them off like the ones in his skin. He steels himself, and tries it, and Renathal wails under him, pants and slurs a noise that might be someone’s name, or it might simply be begging. Draven tries to ignore it.

He keeps Renathal held down with his arm across his thighs, and thankfully he’s too weak to sit up yet, but it doesn’t stop him writhing as Draven pushes and snaps each needle one by one. The beads of blood well up under his claws, along with the growing mess of precum that he can taste in the back of his throat. Renathal’s balls are so swollen, Draven knows he’ll need to be milked soon, but who could say Denathrius will let him, nor how much pain Renathal will be in by then.

Would Denathrius even notice though? He doesn’t seem as interested in Renathal these days, he might not be keeping the same tabs on him as he used to. But still, it’s not worth the risk— even if Renathal lied and said he milked himself, Draven knows all too well the punishment he’d suffer. He doesn’t want to see it again.

He pets Renathal’s thigh as he pulls out the last needle, and the clink as it drops to the floor is almost satisfying. Another glance over, and it seems his front is clear. A gory mess, riddled with holes and bruises, and Draven pointedly ignores the heavy hand prints on his prince’s hips, but at least now he can start to heal.

Wordlessly, he stands, and uses careful hands to help Renathal roll to his side. His back is a mess, but the cuts are clean. The cheeks of his ass and upper thighs are torn up though, and he won’t be sitting for a week or so, perhaps longer if their master wants him again before the week is up.

Draven knew already that his ass would be a mess, he’d felt the blood on his hands earlier after all, but it’s one thing to know of it, and another to see the blood itself trickling and staining his thighs and bed. Steeling himself for the worst, Draven kneels on the bed to get to a better angle for what needs doing. For what he’s done so many times before.

“Wait…” Renathal’s voice is weak, dry, but his eyes are no longer hazy as he looks over his shoulder at Draven.

Draven waits, until Renathal pushes to sit up, and then he helps, and keeps helping until somehow Renathal’s manipulated him into sitting against the plush headboard of the bed, wings supported by cushions, with a weak Renathal straddling his lap, leaning against his chest for support. 

“Like this?” Draven asks, making sure, and Renathal nods and slumps against him. The cage is cold against Draven’s stomach, a hard point of pressure between them, but Renathal doesn’t fidget much and Draven can ignore most discomforts, so he leaves it be.

He’s careful with his claws as he strokes down Renathal’s back, keeping one hand buried in his hair, cupping his head against his chest as he feels for the damage he knows will be there. He doesn’t have to worry about Renathal being too tight, Denathrius always sees to it that he can take him easily, but his claws are long and sharp, and he has to ease them in slowly, lest he cause more damage than he fixes.

He’s torn up, from a toy or Denathrius’ own talons he couldn’t say, but Renathal hisses and arches into his touch when he finds the wounds, ruts his trapped cock against Draven’s stomach, and pants against his chest.

Draven delves deep, searching for damage that might be too much for Renathal’s natural healing, or any last…  _ toys _ Denathrius might have left in him. There’s a feeling of relief when he doesn’t find any this time, and the damage is bad but it won’t ruin his prince, not yet.

He’s ready to pull out when Renathal’s shaky hand reaches back to grab his wrist.

“No, please..” He doesn’t look up at him, but Draven knows what he wants, and huffs to himself, and buries his fingers deep again, cupping the swell of his ass with his palm. Renathal sighs against him and almost relaxes, though Draven can smell the leaking of his cock and feel how he tremors inside. 

He stops petting his hair just long enough to drag the throw up over them both, and between the canopy and Draven’s wings, he finally seems to relax, losing himself again to the pleasure-pain of his torture and Draven’s touch.

Draven will never understand the Venthyr, nor Denathrius and his whims, and not Renathal and his willingness to submit to it, but it doesn’t matter. He serves Revendreth, and his prince, and he’ll do what he needs to ensure both of their survival.


End file.
